And since I did get home earlier than my usual evening arrival, I thought I would tackle the half-bushel of Seckel pears that had been sitting on my counter since Sunday. I had gotten a bee in my bonnet about transforming the beautiful little pears into glistening jars of candied brandy pears. I am constantly amazed at the disconnect between my vivid and wildly romanticized imagination and the reality of what I actually end up with. There must be Pollyanna in my genes. In my overheated imagination, I saw perfect, tiny Seckel pears glimmering in a heady brew of brandy-laden, cinnamon-scented syrup. Are you still with me? Lots of eye-rolling going on out there?
|The Seckel Pears of my dreams...not of my reality.|
After four hours of sorting, peeling, cursing, dropping, more cursing, I ended up with a rather puny mound of wounded pear shapes that left me with a mere four pints of pale, weird forms floating in their aromatic, boozy brew. I mean, really. Did I actually think about how unlikely it was to find eight pounds of PERFECT pears in a half-bushel of falls that were jumbled in a big plastic bag? Did I actually consider that these pears were grown organically, with little oversight and just may be less than perfectly shaped? Did I actually imagine peeling ten pounds of teeny, tiny little lumpy, misshapen pears would be a snap? Obviously, I must have been under the influence of the boozy content of the syrup.
Next year - same recipe, different pears.